Medico de los Muertos
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Molly Hooper works at Bart's as a pathologist. She's skilled, helpful, meticulous and proud of her professional achievements. She is often asked to assist in police enquiries. She likes cats, praline, coffee before noon and bright, translucent eyes. She shops at Tesco and goes running at weekends. She can also hear and converse with dead people, whether she likes it or not.
1. Chapter 1

**" _But where do we go?" asked Elinor._**

 **" _I used to think there was a plan, a rough plan, but a plan all the same," the doctor admitted. "Now I believe there are a thousand plans. Every breath, every decision, influences the plan, expands it, shortens it, twists it all around. It's always changing. Those of us lucky enough to make it through the multitude of possible diseases and accidents get old. We get tired, we close our eyes."_**

 **" _And then? Where are we then?" Silly to ask him as though he knew, but in fact the doctor didn't hesitate. He took Elinor's hand and placed it on his chest, in the place where he knew his heart to be._**

 **" _There."_**

 ** _Elinor smiled and thought at last. At last someone had told her the truth._**

 **~ Alice Hoffman, The Probable Future**

 **~x~**

 **" _Whose are all these ghosts?" She said, smiling at a flustered looking Geraldine._**

 **" _Oh, said Geraldine," I think they might be mine…"_**

 **~ Diane Hall**

* * *

 **I.**

She hadn't spoken to a soul all day.

Trolley wheels squealing across the tired linoleum and dripping taps punctuated the chilled, fluorescent air of the morgue. The huge wall clock ticked down the minutes into hours as her shift seemed to expand and grow like foam from a can, mocking the girl who didn't realise the holiday rota was out until most of her wretched colleagues had squirrelled away the choicest of dates. Families, outings, winter breaks that were simply too amazing not to book and suddenly her workplace was a one-man-band, punctuated by the sights, sounds and subterranean sub-culture of a city mortuary. Radios irritated since she was annoyed by the bright, shiny tunes they seemed to spew out during the midnight hours. Stations imagining night workers needed cheering during their lonely isolations irritated her too. So did the smug and sweeping serenity of most classical pieces. She was easily irritated these days it would seem.

So, her brown low heels clicked a staccato echo as she toured the semi-lit rooms and corridors. Everything still, everything quiet, everything closed down, as it should be.

But, nothing lasts.

" _You let him just take Joey's kidney? Just like that?"_

Peace interrupted all too soon. She sighed, pushing her slightly splattered goggles up onto her forehead and stilling the bone saw. She knew from experience how unlikely it was that a single comment would suffice, so she waited.

" _Molly, I know you heard me."_

"Bone saw." She waggled it, rather tactlessly on reflection she decided. "Couldn't quite catch what you said."

Molly Hooper found her voice to be a little cracked from lack of use: how long had this shift actually been?

"We've already talked about this Carl. I signed the necessary paperwork and tagged it. It was only on loan."

" _So it's back now?"_

The voice practically dripped with accusatory contempt (with a side of judgemental, just to be sure).

"Not yet." She lay the saw down, sighing into the inevitability of this conversation's trajectory - she had been here a few times before - thus it was of little surprise to hear the other, more kindly voice piping up alongside her accuser.

" _Molly, it's fine, really it is. I don't need it anyway."_

" _Not really the point - "_ Carl the pedant.

" _I'm just saying; Molly isn't the kind of person to take advantage of her position, are you Molly?"_

She turned, giving her valiant defender the eye contact he deserved (bless him, he was so much more forgiving than Carl, despite recent events which would have given most a reason to be a bit … _snippy_ ) and smiled, her scrubs crackling as she peeled off a glove.

"Thank you Joey. It was only a loan, and, as I've already told the both of you, it was for a case; Sherlock is doing his very best to catch Joey's killer." She kind of hated the slight tremble of her voice across the syllables of his name, knowing Carl would notice.

" _Well, if you could just send him the message that it was Alistair from the Flying Horse, it would save everyone a fair bit of bother."_

Carl was taking great delight in his cocky sarcasm, but who was she to deny him? Fun times were few and far between down here, that much was certain.

"It probably _was_ Alistair, but Joey isn't entirely sure - "

" _All happened so quick, like - "_

" _Oh, come onnn!"_

Three voices, overlaying each other, all pitched with different nuance and emphasis, all with a particular stance to take and all stopping dead as the firm footsteps of Frederick from security approached along the corridor, pausing a millisecond before pushing open the swing doors and popping his head in (he never quite inserted his whole body, understandably, she supposed).

"Everythin' OK Dr Hooper? Thought I 'eard a raised voice in 'ere." He stole a swift glance around the brightly lit room, managing to avoid the slab where Molly was standing. She grinned brightly (too brightly?) nodding her head towards the tiny DAB radio in the corner.

"Just a DJ waffling on," she breezed, fastening on a new pair of gloves. "Had to turn it off in the end. Annoying."

Frederick nodded, shooting her the ghost of a grateful smile. He really couldn't wait to leave.

"Yeah," he agreed, alreading backing out. "Sometimes it's grand to just be alone with your own thoughts."

And the subdued glow of the flickering tubes seemed to fizzle and dim as his footsteps retreated. Carl and Joey had clearly elected to adopt the quietus most usually assigned to folks in their position and Molly Hooper sighed once more.

Alone with her thoughts?

Chance would be a fine thing.

 **~x~**

 **II.**

John's footfall was light ( _carefree?_ ) but without its usual decisiveness, and his key had been inserted with slightly less certitude than was usual. Combined with the pleasant warmth of the evening ( _John loved a beer garden_ ) and the furtive texting earlier ( _as if he cared whether his flat-mate and Lestrade drank tepid lager together in an overpopulated, overpriced and undersized London pub_ ), Sherlock Holmes deduced his friend may indeed be a little tipsy and therefore more likely to indulge in some 'humorous' post-prandial mockery.

He closed his laptop swiftly and threw himself casually across the sofa, holding a recently discarded paper on kidney calcification in sheep above his head in apparent absorption. He'd been caught out too many times recently and it always needled when John found an achilles heel beneath his carefully positioned armour.

" _On that site again, Sherlock? Who'd have thought you'd be following crime blogs in your old age?"_

Or:

" _You realise it's probably some little old lady from Solihull, tired of Bingo and crocheting tea-cosies, so she's making up penny dreadfuls and passing them off as real crimes."_

Or:

" _Sherlock, I've at least four real cases on my Blog which could require your attention if you wanted to get back to reality for a bit."_

The trouble was too, that John was annoyingly correct on all points, bar one:

As bizarre and gothic as his new obsession was, Sherlock was becoming increasingly convinced that the cold cases on _Medico de los Muertos_ were not merely the fiction of bored suburban grandmothers. There was something there, a kernel of truth within.

There was _always_ something.

The cool night air brought in the strangely attractive scent of hops and stale tobacco. Sherlock inhaled gratefully, half casual and half hoping John would be too tipsy to notice the incriminating whirr of the laptop's fan in its cooling down throes.

"Interesting evening?"

John's distinct lack of tipsiness was evident in the scouring glances around the room as he boiled the kettle. That man was becoming a little too beady-eyed decided Sherlock, conveniently forgetting his own involvement in the matter.

"That paper looks particularly enticing."

So distracted was he, Sherlock had momentarily forgotten the subject of the paper he held across his chest and searched desperately for a diversion.

"Lestrade's salsa dancing classes are largely attended by Mrs Hudson's sewing circle and other lonely divorced men from his demographic."

John cocked an eyebrow, stirring in sugar without comment.

"Statistically, he is more likely to meet a sexual partner crossing the road on Giltspur Junction than cavorting with septuagenarians and middle-aged stockbrokers on a Thursday evening, and much more likely to retain his dignity."

John walked from the kitchen slowly, stirring his tea with a steady (sober) hand and a distinct lack of chit-chat.

"I dunno," he said finally, sitting down at the table (disturbingly near to Sherlock's laptop) rather than in his chair. "He seemed quite chipper- seems to have romantic interests elsewhere as a matter of fact."

Sherlock shrugged, feigning disinterest, but feeling an odd tug somewhere from within.

"Did you get a chance to look over the Bathurst case? Greg really is of the opinion it's the work of a serial killer - "

"It is."

John put down his cup (right next to the laptop. Inches away…), staring at his friend. "So you _have_ looked at it?"

"I've made cursory inroads." The Blog had been very interesting in the case of the seven disappeared women and their pet dogs. Names had been changed, but the details were altogether too similar to be coincidental. The writer was either the killer ( _possible_ ) or completely unaware of the truth of the matter.

"I'm looking into some leads tomorrow. Or Wednesday." In reality, the details provided by _Medico de los Muertos_ were so very precise and particular, Sherlock had immediately discounted any police leak or tabloid speculation. There were snippets of information only a killer could know - or the victims themselves.

The problem, mused Sherlock as John and 221B faded into the basement of his Mind Palace, was that updates (though fascinating) were rather nebulous and sporadic. A hint here, a glimpse there, but hardly useful when an ongoing case was snapping at his heels. Could he afford to wait or just forge ahead via his usual methods? _Los Muertos_ insisted that the missing victim was the killer's final trophy, but the police hadn't found her yet. This was extremely alluring but frustratingly equivocal, and if it hadn't been for all of the other cases, Sherlock would have dismissed it all out of hand.

Just over a year ago, during a insomniacal trawl through the darkest recesses of the internet, the black and red sugar skull logo stilled his fingers and drew his jaded eye. Entirely anonymous and rather randomly sprawling, cases were numbered, or given odd titles ('the ebay killer') whilst comments were thready and almost nonsensical.

To most, anyway.

 _The Case of the Excedrin Murders:_

 _Rosemarie Taggart was was both much poorer and more encumbered than she needed to be. A stout woman, well past middle age and her last shred of patience with a superfluous husband, Rosemarie had done a little research which had lead to a little murder. Apparently, cyanide added to the extra-strength Excedrin tablets he took for his prolapsed disc gave a pleasingly ambiguous recording of 'emphysema' on his death certificate, leading to a rewarding £71,000 collection of life insurance with no-one dictating how Rosemarie would be spending it. A terrible way to end a union that had once begun in a flurry of orange blossom confetti and the naivete of youth, but more than common in a world of dog eat dog criminality. Thus, all would have been over and done with but for those pesky life insurance brokers. Death, you see, wasn't enough in itself. Only a certain kind of death would suffice to bring an end to Rosemarie's reliance on food vouchers and early bird specials: the accidental kind. Since emphysema (even fake emphysema) could not be construed as accidental, the resourceful Mrs Taggart took matters a little further when she poisoned an entire shelf of extra-strength Excedrin with cyanide, killing a further two people in her hometown, and leading to mass panic and over one hundred and forty lawsuits. Death was verified as accidental, the drug company paid up and the widow was both merry and without further inconvenience, since no-one traced the library books on poison with their cyanide tainted pages back to her. And why? Because no-one had cause to; and the dead tell no tales, do they?_

 _But Medico de los Muertos knew, and they told their tale deep in the recesses of the internet, the dark web where only those with minds and hearts as black and troubled would decide to enter._

 _The Secrets of the Murderous Novelist:_

 _Jonathan Roebuck, part time college lecturer, aspiring writer and unconvicted killer of the man who slept with his wife whilst he himself was flirting with undergraduates half of his age in campus cafeterias. Once again, the murder remained unsolved and the killer free to enjoy his life, basking in the downcast eyelashes of his fresher's tutorial group and the grief-stricken glances of his bereaved spouse. How Mrs Roebuck would have delighted then, in finding the unpublished novel hidden beneath floorboards in the attic which detailed a 'perfect crime' with a murder she could hardly fail to recognise. Details which included the type of special knots used in tying the ligatures around a dying man's throat, or in explaining how the victim's phone had been sold on ebay shortly after his death; details only the killer himself would know. Such an egotistically elaborate method of confession which lay, gathering dust beneath reclaimed oak and years of heartache, and never to see the light of day but merely an Nietzschean exercise in superiority, hubris and cruelty. But it wasn't secret any more, was it? The Blog had gathered it up in its maw of unsolved crimes and unrepentant murderers and secreted it amongst its darkened virtual shelving, where it would gather no dust and await someone to find it…_

Sherlock jerked into life, Mind Palace walls melting away as his companion's words broke through.

His eyes alighted on John, mouth closing on his most recently formed syllable as his soldier's hand rested still and steady upon the lid of Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock blinked, attempting to shake away old thoughts in favour of more pressing ones.

But John was smiling as he repeated himself and Sherlock knew the jig was up before a sound was uttered.

"It's still warm," said John.

* * *

 **A/N: The premise of this story was inspired by the wonderful artwork of meetingyourmaker on Tumblr, entitled 'Molly of the Dead.'**

 **Medico de los Muertos - Doctor of the Dead**


	2. Chapter 2

**III.**

Molly's fingers stilled over the keyboard as she stopped to listen a little harder through Camila Cabello ( _"All of my heart is in Havana, there's somethin' 'bout his manners, "_ )... Yes, noises. Noises where there should be no noises.

Scraping her chair back, she pulled out earbuds and checked the time (a few minutes past _what-are-you-doing-with-your-life_ o'clock) as she rose stiffly from the arse-numbing chair seat. She strode purposefully through subdued lighting with a irritated caste to her demeanor, which was not lost on Carl as she pushed her way into the mortuary.

" _Talk of the devil and she appears, looking full o' hell too!"_

" _Hi Molly, I hope we didn't disturb you."_ Always the peacemaker, Joey. She'd quite miss him when his case was finally wrapped up.

"I can hear you down the corridor Carl," she flashed a conciliatory smile Joey's way to show him where the accusations were directed. "I'm finding it hard to concentrate."

" _C'mon! You can't still be on that report about Jackie. I've told you who it was - even Jackie told you who it was!"_

Carl was not going to be a miss when he went, but according to Greg, things were proving tough in the apprehending stakes and it could be a while before that pleasure was hers. Truthfully though, Molly usually didn't mind the buzz of voices down there in the morgue, just as long as they didn't reach the heights of Carl's strident tones (it seemed severed vocal chords didn't impede a voice if it really wanted to share unwanted opinions with you) when she was working. Even more truthfully (since that was the theme of tonight's self-recriminations), she'd probably end up admitting to the both of them that she wasn't writing up the report on the less than fortunate Jackie, but rather updating her lifeline, her sanity-maker, her salvation in this insane world she appeared to be inhabiting -

 _Her Blog._

The Blog had actually been Sarah Gnezere's idea (though, perhaps not the exact subject of it).

"It's for the person who needs a therapist but can't afford one, Molly."

"You're saying I need a therapist?"

Sarah shrugged, putting down a sandwich and letting her dark eyes take a tour of their subterranean surroundings.

"You work down here, shut away from the world, trying to find out dead people's secrets-"

"Nice."

"But true. You do cut up bodies, you do science and then you mope-"

"I _mope_?"

Another shrug.

"Mope, pine. Call it what you will, babe, but you need to get your thoughts out of there (pointing randomly towards Molly's ponytail) and into… _somewhere else_ \- before your head explodes."

Molly Hooper chewed her sandwich thoughtfully, with a side order of discomfiture adding piquancy to the tuna mayonnaise.

"Sarah, I'm busy and entirely OK with my life. I'm not sitting around waiting for some bloke to save me." It seemed news of that stupid crush would haunt her until she was down here as a customer herself. Sarah's eye's twinkled, but not unkindly as she rose to leave, tipping leftovers into the bin and crumbs into the sink.

"No babe (squeezing Molly's shoulder as she passed), but the heart - it wants what it wants."

The door swung once, twice as she left, still giving Molly Hooper the chance to catch her parting words, fading up the corridor:

"Write a blog babe. Start today!"

 **~x~**

Bizarrely, it was Jim Moriarty (or at least a memory of him) who'd finally made the decision for her.

During their three (and a half) dates, Jim from IT had attempted to impress her with tales of 'the dark web' and how the internet was not as open to all as she'd first supposed.

"People do love their little secrets." He'd smiled that vulpine grin that had lit those black eyes with a haematite glow. "There are so many places to hide the things you don't want too many others to see, and so many ways to find them - if you know where to look."

She had looked down into her glass, red wine swirled about its sides, a meniscus coating of red.

"You could maybe just email a person, or send a letter even," she'd offered feebly, feeling naive and faintly ridiculous. He had laughed showing many teeth.

"Ah Molly, you make me laugh! You _kill_ me!" He put down his glass, tilting his head and taking in the whole of her.

"Sometimes," he said, "you _want_ your secrets to be found."

So, three days after ' _the heart wants what it wants_ ', Dr Molly Hooper began _Medico de los Muertos_ , hiding it from surface browsers who might put two and two together and changing all the detail she could. If only Sarah had known, but it was not the loneliness of the Morgue night shift that prompted her foray into virtual diary-writing, nor even the pangs and lurches her treacherous heart gave forth at the glimpse of a long coat or dark head of curls… no.

It was the rising tide, the constant flow of conversations with dead people that was buffeting her brain and dashing her sanity against the rocks. And Sarah was right, it did help. _Medico de los Muertos_ became her outlet, her uploading of the secret words of the unfortunate, the unlucky and the greatly-wronged. She could have written them into a notebook, or dictated them as she did her autopsy findings, but there was too much of a risk of discovery. Molly did not like to question her 'talent' too closely (she very possible could be suffering a yet undiagnosed psychosis) but she realised it wasn't going away too soon, and her unsolicited post-mortem chit-chat would have to be managed into something before her head really did explode.

Many of her deceased conversationalists talked about their pet cat, or their last holiday to Portugal ( _"fabulous seafood Molly!"_ ) and some (understandably) seemed confused and not quite sure how they'd come to be in such an unforeseen predicament, but the ones (like Carl and Joey) who had been involved in suspicious endings often wanted to tell her things - too many things - about what had happened to them. She could not (and would not) sift through their often incoherent ramblings and wild theories in an attempt to assist the Met. with their enquiries (she'd jotted down random sets of letters and numbers some had insisted on her jotting down - maybe code? Map references? Too much James Bond on a Sunday afternoon perhaps), since she could not possibly explain her knowledge without implicating herself. In addition, the recently alive were often a little unreliable (and possibly biased) in their re-telling of events - not really their fault, she supposed, but there it was. Their stories made great stories (even though many were anecdotal urban myths) and the Blog was perfect for uploading them from her brain before they had settled down and taken root.

Molly had just been finishing adding Jackie's story, about her friend Maureen who had lost her dog, gone to look for him and never been seen again. Jackie claimed she had called round at Maureen's ground floor flat in Bethnal Green and had been 'silenced' by the murderer. Carl and several of the others insisted on championing this version of events, yet Jackie's autopsy revealed a great deal of undiagnosed Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and very little evidence of 'silencing.'

"All I know is, he had Maureen's yellow brolly," Jackie had sulkily muttered as Molly pushed her trolley along a (mercifully) deserted corridor. "Now, why would he have that it he hadn't offed her?"

Molly Hooper sighed and the Morgue seemed to sigh with her. No-one was enjoying being there tonight and she really did sometimes want to reach out and offer them a crumb of comfort.

"Sherlock is pretty certain about it being Alistair," she smiled at Joey, who wasn't looking great, but these lights didn't do anyone any favours. Even in the dingy flicker, Joey seemed to brighten.

" _Really?"_

"He's speaking to Greg about it tonight. Your kidney was more useful than anyone realised."

" _Well that's grand, Molly! Thank you."_

" _About bloody time!"_ They both ignored Carl.

"It'll soon be time for you to go, Joey. You'll get some peace."

It could be a trick of the light on a vitreous humor well past its best, but Molly was sure a tear glinted in the corner of his eye.

" _You like him, don't you? You like him a lot."_ His voice was barely above a whisper and Molly felt she had little to lose.

"Ye-ep." The word escaped on a sigh and she busied her hands with the cadaver pouch as she moved his trolley. " I sort of do, Joey, but it's OK. He is what he is, which is not the dating kind."

" _You don't know that. And even if he isn't, you shouldn't give up on love; it can make you bitter, like Carl."_

" _I heard that!"_

"I know, but I'm not really-"

She paused as she opened the door of the cooler. They both knew it wasn't good to speak as they entered this stage, since both parties were unnerved.

" _Remember Molly,"_ whispered Joey finally. _"Life is short."_

 _ **~x~**_


	3. Chapter 3

**IV.**

He leant across the chest cavity with the lens, pale eyes bright and alive, cataloguing, measuring, assessing, face so close but only seeing _data, data, data_ rather than a person. Molly saw both, but things being as they were, it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate the two.

"Jacqueline Davidson, age 59. Heavy smoker. Cause of death most likely COPD. Greg doesn't suspect foul play…"

"Mmm."

He'd no coat on today, since the sun was (allegedly) cracking the flags up there. His sleeves were rolled high and Molly noticed a light sprinkling of freckles across his forearms she'd never seen before, and a tiny scar near the elbow. It looked old, a childhood wound perhaps…

"... did you hear me?"

Oh dear, he was staring up at her, and she wasn't even listening. Shame on you, Hooper, get a grip of yourself (maybe Carl was rubbing off on her after all).

"Sorry?"

"She wasn't found at her home was she? Visiting a friend. Has the friend turned up?"

 _(No, and she's not likely to if Jackie's story held any water whatsoever)_

"Not yet."

"Mmm." More checking, this time of Jackie's calloused, stained hands; smoker's hands. "She didn't own a dog."

"Mmm… Ok. Is that important?"

"A dog lived in that flat, despite almost all evidence of it being covered up."

"Then, why do you think a dog lived there?"

He looked up at her again, eyes holding her, opening her up.

"Because I looked for it, and some people are more sloppy than they realise." Dropping her gaze, he returned to Jackie. "This lady didn't bring a dog, but there was fresh evidence such an animal was there, now both owner and dog have disappeared."

"You're thinking about the Pet Shop Killer? The Bathurst Case? You think this Maureen was another victim?"

He shot her a look at the name.

"I… er, Greg showed me the report… parts of it. Could it not be circumstantial?"

"I don't think so." He was still looking at her as she busied herself returning Jackie to her temporary residence and she felt his gaze a searching one. Despite her lack of criminality, Molly Hooper felt a little sympathy with any person who being questioned by Sherlock Holmes, and, as was customary in times of stress around Sherlock, she found herself chatting about inanities in order to fill the silence.

"I mean, reports get it wrong all the time, don't they? Things go missing from crime scenes too, with the best will in the world…" She couldn't say why exactly, but she didn't want Jackie to be involved in such horror, not this time. "Dog collars, bowls, that sort of thing… I mean, anyone could have lifted them, along with the yellow umbrella…"

As they walked out, along the corridor and towards the hospital's busy summer bustle which was so at odds with the dark and quiet world they left behind, it was Sherlock who found his heart thumping, his pulse racing and his mouth dry. His eidetic memory had devoured that police report in around seven minutes, and he was certain absolutely no mention had been made of a yellow umbrella; indeed, there was only one place he had seen such an item mentioned recently, and that blog lay buried deep within the nether realms of the internet.

So how in the world, asked his discomforted brain, could Dr Molly Hooper know all about it?

 **~x~**

 **V.**

Mycroft Holmes detested the heat of high summer as it seemed to spawn a rather vulgar brand of informality that irked him: thin, cheap fabrics and self-conscious sunglasses, novelty head gear, drinking at haphazardly placed tables on public highways, music blaring from open doors and windows… the list was endless. And then there were _sandals_ \- an involuntary shudder clutched at him as he turned up the stairs into his brother's flat - their guttural stab at sartorial acceptance made it seem as if the Renaissance had never happened.

A familiar Estuary twang blindsided him as he entered Sherlock's sitting room; one wouldn't bother knocking if a door was ajar and all manner of _local colour_ was sprawled all over the soft furnishings.

" - so you're looking for the subscriber's form - "

"Wiggins, I've told you, this kind of site won't have such a mundane- oh."

"Yeah, like I said Shezzer, you find the form first…"

"Busy researching the whereabouts of a serial killer I see."

Both heads spun around from the screen simultaneously to face the interloper.

"Candy crush."

"Angry Birds."

Sherlock closed the laptop (a little hastily, but Mycroft's beadiness made John appear myopic) and faced his unexpected visitor with his usual affected disdain.

"Why are you here? Who's running the country when you're out of the office?"

Wiggins had the sense to busy himself in the kitchen since Holmesian crossfire was seldom beneficial to the casual observer.

"And I am delighted to see you also Sherlock." Mycroft gave a narrow-eyed smirk, bordering on the cusp of sincerity. "It's been too long."

Sherlock stood impatiently, mentally deliberating the quickest method for ridding his flat of his sibling, the current favourite being some heavy duty ignoring.

"Mmm, been busy." Ignoring was of little use as Mycroft had the patience of Job when necessary, and judging by his left cuff and missing signet ring, the situation clearly deemed it so.

"Really?"

"Well, no."

A beat, then:

"You need my help."

"It would seem so." Mycroft absently touched his empty ring finger, regretful of his faux pas. "It's election year and the last thing a new mayor needs is a Metropolitan serial killer on the loose, slaughtering middle-aged ladies and their faithful hounds."

Sherlock sighed, the three other methods dissipating into smoke above their heads. He did so long for a cigarette…

"May I have a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke Sherlock."

"Yes you do."

By the time the flat was empty again (he hadn't even noticed Wiggins slip away) it was almost dusk and Sherlock stood, barefoot in the heaviness of a hot city, staring at his 'working wall' and smoking absently until ash dropped unheeded from his lax fingers. Six victims, six dogs, tabloid banner headlines, agitated populus, agitated city leaders, brother and Met. breathing down his neck -

And all he could think about was Molly Hooper from the morgue, and that yellow umbrella.

Impatiently, he tossed the unfulfilling pack aside and writhed his laptop from where Wiggins had thrust it beneath a pile of papers and some of Mrs Hudson's dry cleaning he'd promised to drop off at the cleaners.

' _Enable auto updated subscribers?'_ Whatever Wiggins had suggested appeared less than logical, since he knew _Medico de los Muertos_ would most certainly not have an _ask_ section or any means of communic-

Sherlock sat back in surprise (a rare treat indeed) as a box blinked into view, flashing a heart-thumpingly seductive invitation into his very living room:

 _Message here: (500 characters)..._

 **~x~**


	4. Chapter 4

She felt she might vomit.

Despite being privy to a substantial back catalogue of gag-inducing scenarios, Molly Hooper had never quite experienced the _cold-sweat-rising-in-the-gullet_ reaction the way she did at that moment. All of the maggot-ridden, oozing fetidness of her job had suddenly paled into insignificance as she opened up her laptop that evening. She had been so looking forward to an evening of _Pinot Gregarious_ (as Sarah called it) and feet up time with her own private therapy and a jumbo bag of Frazzles, particularly since today had seen (and heard) the last of Carl and his indiscreet opinions thanks to Sherlock's deductive skills. One man's kidney was another man's downfall, and it seemed it wasn't Alistair from _The Flying Horse_ , but Carl himself who had ended things for poor Joey. Molly sincerely hoped there wasn't actually (another) waiting room for the dead elsewhere, or there could certainly be some awkwardness.

But her evening (and possibly her life) was now in tatters. Clammy hands hovered above a now terrifying keyboard as the _'message (1)'_ legend flashed before her eyes. No-one, but no-one was supposed to actually read this were they? It was just an outpouring! Sarah had said so. Jim had (kind of) said so.

But.

Jim had also said:

" _There are so many places to hide the things you don't want too many others to see, and so many ways to find them - if you know where to look."_

God.

She was so very sick and tired of messages from beyond the grave.

The message continued to blink (mocking her, taunting her) so Molly Hooper (a strong-willed and commonly lion-hearted kind of person) did what she needed to do… she opened it.

' _Doctor - your observations interest me greatly. Should you ever wish to meet to discuss any aspect of them with an appreciative party, do not hesitate to do so. - Meiringen'_

And consequently, Dr Molly Hooper then did what anyone in possession of her particular skill-set and demeanour might…

She reached for the wine bottle.

 _ **~x~**_

Melanie Trevenieux-Cooper, decided John Watson, was exactly the kind of girl he would have had a hopeless crush on when he was sixteen. She exuded wealth, privilege and the ability to caste her honey-coloured tresses about her shoulders without care or concern for those in her immediate vicinity. Despite her current familial trauma (regarding a disappeared step-brother and a more than dubious trust fund), Melanie retained a far less than appealing sense of entitlement which allowed her to enter the push-button boutiques of Knightsbridge and Tennis Clubs of Kensington with barely a flicker of doubt that she absolutely deserved to be there. She had never doubted the length of her perfect neck, nor the decolletage of her sumptuous bosom until this very day, hour… this very minute, in fact.

"I beg your pardon?" she was genuine; incredulous. " _What_ did you call me?"

Sherlock looked up, distracted, bored, giving barely 30% of his thinking powers to her (less than a 5.5) case but startled slightly out of his stupor by her tone.

"By your name I would imagine." His look was wary, guarded, but she stood her ground. Also, John took his arm in warning, but he had no idea why. Had she not seemed attentive, charming (flirtatious? It was hard to tell - touching her face, hair, mouth, his knee) when they arrived? What had changed? He already knew her step-brother's fate involved an ill-advised but cheerful wedding to his Spanish gardener but had been too bored and distracted to have yet shared such wonderful news.

John's hand was on his elbow and he didn't know why.

Her eyes caught his and he recognised a certain sort of annoyance; the anger of the thwarted.

"You imagine incorrectly Mr Holmes. Once would have seemed absent-minded, twice a little impertinent, but _three_ times? I find myself doubting your faculties if a name is so difficult to retain."

"You should chat to our friend Greg sometime." Sherlock felt John to be commandeering a situation he himself had very little investment in, but allowed himself to be led out of the over-furnished, overly-heated Belgravian town house.

As Sherlock texted the result of his deductions to his peeved client (he would find them of little use to himself), her words rang through the elaborately porticoed doorway and into the rarified air beyond.

" _Melanie_ , Mr Sherlock Holmes! My name is Melanie, not _Molly_!"

"Distracted are we?"

John didn't catch his eye as they walked away, but Sherlock had seldom felt more surveyed.

 _ **~x~**_

Days passed, eventually blossoming into weeks. Cases came, were solved then went. John was caught up in several slightly regrettable literary flourishes -

" _The bizarre skin colour developed after several months of slow poisoning with the aforementioned compound. Her habitual use of sunbeds disguised the symptoms beautifully until a tanning tube fizzled out."_

" _Amazing! The Adventure of the Sallow Skin … no! The Yellow Skin! Face! The Adventure of the Yellow Face!"_

" _Must you?"_

" _Absolutely."_

\- and Greg came by most afternoons to update on various thorny little problems, as well as the rather large problem of those serial murders.

"I drop by the morgue most days, but the Jane Does have been incredibly run of the mill. Molly's doing a grand job, but - "

Noticing how Sherlock's Stradivarius string was no longer being tightened, John probed further.

"Is everything OK in the lab? Is Molly OK?"

Greg shrugged and John noted the instrument being laid down gently on the table; air almost thickening with an intensity of focus.

"Ah, bless her. I worry about that girl. Down in the basement with dead folk for twelve hours at a time." He looks up and John is surprised to see grooved lines of his concern etched above the Inspector's brow. "She looks pasty, knackered. Needs a holiday if you ask me."

"No-one has."

Two sets of eyes swivel to their previously silent companion. Sherlock sat in pale green pyjama bottoms and bare feet (the heat remained - stuffy, stifling and in need of a good storm to clear it), knees pulled up towards his chest. He looked disgruntled, pissed off; sick of his whole existence.

"Sorry?" Greg crinkled his brow some more, but John Watson knew where this was heading.

"No-one _has_ asked you, Lestrade. As I have work to do - dog murderers to apprehend - and all that important government-related nonsense to attend to, I suggest you might want to leave now. John has a date, so I am equally certain he shall see you out on his way to it."

Even though John did see a nonplussed Greg out into the solid heat of the evening, he still found time to pop his head back around the sitting room door before leaving (thirty minutes early) to meet Mary Morstan.

"Hey, whatever's bouncing around in that great big, unfiltered brain of yours regarding Molly Hooper right now, I suggest you get along and sort it."

"John, I really d- "

"Yeah, yeah, I know about _the cold, hard logic you hold most dear_ \- cut my teeth on it - but go and see her, 'cos nothing's getting sorted until you do."

And he closed the door.

 **~x~**

 **VI.**

" _I never loved my husband you know."_

Dainty as she was, her words were firm, unequivocal.

" _He never did me any harm; perfectly reasonable his whole life, and a lovely father too."_

Molly smiled since Alice didn't seem to need specific responses to encourage further divulgences, and she wasn't entirely sure what to say.

" _But, I never felt that heart-stopping flutter, that yearning when he wasn't there. I wouldn't have died for him, you know, dear."_

Luckily, Alice hadn't died _because of him_ either, considered Molly (pulmonary embolism, pure and simple), since she'd had more than enough murderous intents on her slab recently. She hadn't dared look at (let alone add to) the blog for a week, and didn't know if she'd ever dare revisit it again. She tucked a wisp of grey hair that had been lifted by the air conditioner back behind Alice's ear, a touching gesture appreciated by both, she hoped.

" _You're a good person,"_ confirmed Alice kindly. _"You deserve a good man."_

"Definitely, Alice," she concurred, tying off a suture. "I'll get right on that."

" _Make sure you do dear, but - "_ she lowered her strident tone infinitesimally, adding as much gravitas as much as a person in her position could.

" _\- if he doesn't make your heart beat a little bit faster when you hear his key in the door, walk away."_

Molly Hooper held her scissors aloft, heart beat quickening inexplicably (stupidly).

"Aren't you the romantic?" she covered her treacherous heartbeat in the huff of a smile, but Alice wasn't having it.

" _It isn't romance my dear, it's life,"_ she said firmly.

 **~x~**

 **3rd July**

' _Doctor - your observations interest me greatly. Should you ever wish to meet to discuss any aspect of them with an appreciative party, do not hesitate to do so. - Meiringen'_

 **5th July**

' _Doctor - I trust my enquiry has not caused you any offense, as that was far from my intention. I merely wish to begin a dialogue regarding some of the cases you mention. I believe in their relevance and feel their discussion might be purposeful. - Meiringen'_

 **9th July**

' _Doctor - your silence is entirely understandable, however, I must point out that your Excedrin case does, in fact, refer to a Mrs Withington from Waltham Forest, who is currently living a wealthy and enjoyable existence in the sure and certain knowledge she's fooled everyone. In addition, Adam Carlyle from Hounslow has his murder confession stored in his attic, ticking away like a time bomb. The question that should perhaps be asked - is it time? Are these cases detailed for amusement, or do you await the prevailing of justice from another source? - Meiringen'_

 **14th July**

' _Doctor - despite your lack of response, I must ask one final question regarding the lady's missing yellow umbrella; has it ever been found? In addition, did she own a dog? Should you wish to discuss any topics mentioned, do not hesitate to reply. Time may be of the essence. - Meiringen.'_

 **18th July**

' _Should you prefer face to face, I have no issue with that. - Meiringen'_

 **20th July**

' _I shall be at the scene of the last victim's disappearance at 7.30 tomorrow evening. I shall wait for thirty minutes, not a moment longer. The choice is yours. - Meiringen'_

 **~x~**


	5. Chapter 5

**VII.**

Typically, Jackie wasn't talking much that afternoon, but Molly Hooper, Doctor of Death, was a little past caring.

"Jackie, I know you can hear me. Listen, you told me about Maureen and that man who took her yellow umbrella and probably killed her - "

" _And me!"_

"No, the obstructive pulmonary disease killed you, but the shock might have pushed it on a bit, admittedly."

" _You seem bad tempered tonight Miss Molly. Who's been botherin' you? Or need I ask."_

Molly fought the urge to zip her right back up again and bit back some strong and ultimately regretful phrases fighting to escape. She was on her very last nerve.

"Those numbers you gave me, a few weeks ago - you made me write them down and I put them on my blog ( _whywhywhy?_ ) and now some weirdo is nagging me to meet up with him and chat about these killings… I can't even remember…" (she was living on coffee and adrenaline at this point)

" _You need to take a breath, love."_

"You're a fine one to talk."

An odd silence stretched out and Molly contritely gathered her wretched self together.

"I am sorry Jackie. That was uncalled for. I'm just so stressed. They could be the police, the killer himself, anyone… _anyone_ …"

" _TQ 3651 8130 - 'co-ordinates' she said. Maureen made me memorise them when I last saw her. Wouldn't say why. She was acting weird, like she was sorting out her business, like she was planning to go away somewhere. Emigrate or summick."_

Molly's mind whirred, battering itself from panic to catastrophising then back to chastisement, followed by more panic. Ironically, although she was surrounded by a plethora of law agents, both public and private, she could not bear the appalled faces ( _Greg/Anderson/Donovan)_ and potential ridicule ( _Sherlock_ ) a confession of her current situation would ultimately result in.

" _And you found this information from a three week old corpse you had recently autopsied Molly?"_

" _Your fantastical chats with dead people appear to be unearthing (!) some surprisingly accurate facts Molly. How can you explain such a thing?"_

" _Do you ever black out and lose hours of your life Molly? Do you ever wake up in places you can't remember going to?"_

Although Molly understood the insanity of her predicament, she was collected enough to know why she had chosen her career pathway, since she had always felt an affinity with the dead. An open coffin in her grandmother's front parlour had been shockingly unexpected, but somehow made better by her grandmother's voice telling her about her dress looking pretty. Molly had thought it was a recording or video footage at the time. Later then, she had heard the squeal of tyres from the classroom and followed the other children running out into the yard to see what had happened. She'd heard Joanna Mitchell's voice shouting her to bring her grape flavoured pen outside and thought it odd. Later, she discovered Joanna had been killed on impact and couldn't possibly have spoken to Molly, could she?

Things we don't want to/are unable to believe can so often be explained away on a rapidly sketched facsimile of logic, because the human mind will not tolerate what it cannot process. Molly Hooper gradually accepted her quirk and realised it was a mostly harmless affectation, much less worrisome than a facial tick, or hypermobility, or diabetes.

Until now, that was.

 **~x~**

 **21st July**

 **7.34pm**

 **Tower Hamlets**

The need to meet with the writer of _Medico de los Muertos_ had quickly consumed Sherlock more than any tobacco, stimulant or depressant had ever done; he actually, physically ached with the urge of unmasking this anonymous donor of such very specific insider information. Even before he heard the light footfall crunch along the untended pathway at the rear of Maureen O'Donnell's flat, he had predicted every hair on their head and every caste to their step.

 _ **~x~**_

She knew the potential danger of her situation, but Molly was unable to live through another single second of tension. She could not explain why, but expected no threat of mortal danger from her blog's biggest fan, only perhaps, potential exposure, humiliation and possible imprisonment. Nevertheless, she asked the cabbie to wait at the corner. She gave her mobile number too. Chaffinches twittered on the high telegraph wires, since trees were few and far between on this side of town. Evening sun had shed a golden cast across the skyline of flat roofs, kicked in bus shelters and blank, dirty window panes, but summer was still fresh and youths on street corners laughed loud through thumping beats and clouds of cigarette smoke. Her sandalled feet (with pale yellow ankle socks) looked naive and ill-prepared for such a rendezvous (what would have been preferable though? Army boots? DMs?) but she hadn't strategised, only acted, since the suspense was more torturous than anything. Stupid, rapid, heartbeat, pounding in her ears, hands shaking and scrambled brain trying to think of a reason she hadn't told Greg Lestrade the truth when he asked if she needed a lift and whether she was going anywhere nice.

 _(No thanks Greg, I'm just off to meet up with a potential nut case who is making a rogue's gallery of my new blog. Oh, didn't I mention my blog, Greg? Oh, it's fascinating apparently. Who knew post-mortem confidences could prove to be so fruitful to the criminologist…)_

Molly Hooper suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, embroidered sandals and primrose ankle socks snapping together as her misfiring synapses fell into some semblance of order at last. Thus, she had approximately three seconds to gather the word and cast it from her lips as he turned the corner, evening sun glittering bright and buoyant through those iridescent eyes.

" _Sherlock_ ," she said.

 **~x~**

Worried more about the basketball bouncing ever closer to his wing mirrors, the taxi driver was caught on the hop as his most recent passenger barrelled speedily around the corner, closely pursued by a tall, dark-haired man in a white shirt and harried expression. He opened the car door, stepping out into humidity from the coolness of his aircon, slowed slightly by the wall of warmth and absolutely furious expression on the fair face of his fare.

"Alreet, pet?" He was a Geordie (and a bit of a gentleman, if truth be told). "Want us to call the rozzers?"

"NO!"

Denial flew from both their mouths in unison, making her slow, then stop, then shake her head.

"For God's sake!" She turned towards the dark haired man, who had stopped a respectful distance, waiting.

"For God's sake Sherlock," she said again, more quietly, with the thump of the basketball and thrum of the baseline from nearby speakers beating over everything, like the pounding of a giant heart.

 **~x~**


	6. Chapter 6

"They are Ordnance Survey co-ordinates for the site of a derelict sports centre in Tower Hamlets. I need to go there tonight. You may wish to come; I doubt it will be dangerous."

She just stared at him as their feet dangled over the edge of the concrete wall, half hidden by untended dandelions and daubed with a hundred messages, slogans and obscenities. A setting sun gave his shirt a peachy glow and a slight but welcome breeze had mysteriously been conjured from the west, lifting her lace collar and the hair across his forehead. There was little point kicking off about the fear his messages had instilled since she knew he always took the experiment to its most extreme variable before the results were proven. He had needed to be sure she was _Medico de los Muertos_ , but being Sherlock, wouldn't have thought it more convenient just to ask. Now what? He was asking her to go on some evening caper around the derelict back streets of Tower Hamlets?

"We're solving crimes tonight then?"

Sherlock looked at her suddenly and decided that Dr. Molly Hooper was a little extraordinary. Pale apricot shafts of sun had caught her hair, ensnaring it within a carapace of coppery glints. Her eyes were dark, almost black in the shadows as they fell across her small face, but he knew how well she could see him.

"We could hardly fail to. This murderer falls into the thwarted serial killer category; the person who 's been tragically denied attention and adulation his entire life and has been basking in every centimetre of news report pertaining to his crimes."

"Well, why else would anyone kill dogs? It screams of sensationalism." Molly spoke assuredly, despite the fact she had used one of Carl's lines. Ah well, who was going to tell him anyway? Sherlock's eyes widened, then he quirked a rare smile.

"Quite so. He'd been a little overly clever with Maureen, though. Hidden her and her pet's bodies a bit too well so that the police have been unable to find them. Your Jackie was supposed to be a witness and provider of the grid references if it became necessary, but inconveniently died of her respiratory illness before she could report anything." He tensed and then jumped down from the wall, then turned, offering a hand towards her.

"I've called a taxi. Coming?"

"You seem pretty certain I'm not the killer then."

He grinned into the gathering gloom, teeth glinting. "More certain than I am of anything."

"But you're OK that I can hear and converse with the recently deceased?"

"Once you have eliminated the impossible - "

"God, Sherlock!"

"I can live with it," he said, softly.

 **~x~**

 **VIII.**

"He looks chuffed."

"More than chuffed; he looks _thrilled_ , Mary." John place the shopping down carefully with the unmistakably chink of several bottles punctuating his action.

"I might go as far to say as he was _effervescent_ with chuffed-ness, with an embellishment of _thrills_."

"Appallingly verbose as per your usual style," Sherlock murmured from the kitchen table where he was sporadically emailing without, it would seem, his usual bout of post-case depression.

"Thank you."

"With an embellishment of grammatical suicide."

"You're only able to say that due to your … " Mary searched wildly for a phrase as she pushed pasta into the cupboard and wine into the fridge of 221B's much-abused kitchen.

"Your _incandescent delight_ with the world right now." John smiled beatifically at Sherlock's scowl, especially as he knew the truth of the matter.

It was certainly true that Mrs Withington from Waltham Forest's murderous insurance claim had been rigorously investigated, whilst Adam Carlyle's deeply narcissistic murderous novella had been unearthed from beneath the floorboards of his loft. Both had resulted in trial and retribution thanks to the woeful and confessional tears of both parties. Molly and her deathly confessionary was not required to take the witness stand.

"You've got to admit, it is quite a cool talent to have." Mary took a slug of (now chilled wine) as she waggled her toes at a narrow-eyed Sherlock from her prime perch across John's lap. Outward appearances aside, they did share a deep fondness for each other.

" _Cool_ is a less than appropriate summation. It's a rare quirk of genetics and still undergoing testing in half the secret facilities across the world. They really do know very little about it, suffice to say, Molly will be no-one's guinea pig."

Mary dug her heel into John's thigh in a far from subtle gesture which Sherlock Holmes affected not to notice.

"She's one of the _X-Men_! She'll be a secret weapon!" Mary's enthusiasm was escaping her capacity to contain it and it was John's turn for a subtle gesture (in the ribs).

"Stop it now, you're rattling him. Molly's fine. She remains un-experimented on and free to roam amongst us mortals (and Sherlock) if she wants to."

A silence was punctuated by Sherlock's phone, which was swiftly thrown unanswered across the room at John.

"Mycroft," he mouthed at Mary, then:

"Hello Mycroft … yes … mmm… well, you know already really don't you? Yes, yes, I will... " he glanced up to see Sherlock scowling into his Persian slipper as he rootled vainly for a source of tobacco. "Yes Mycroft, he's … virtually _vibrating with joy_ … no, just Mary and myself … she's at work today I think… yes, well I think I'll be going now… I might ask, cheers. Bye!"

He turned to Sherlock, chucking the phone back and grinning.

"He says ta very much for that serial killer stuff."

"Unlikely."

"Well, he was grateful… in his own way."

The sport's centre had been boarded up for several years but its ease of entry so obvious a lure for the police, even Anderson could have deduced his way into the basement, where (just in case they'd missed it) the bodies of Maureen O'Donnell and her aged dachshund Conan were packed into trussed up tarpaulin, topped by a battered yellow umbrella.

Thus, future Mayor's were comforted and the general populus could rest easy in their beds as a weasley, whey-faced part-time train driver was arrested for their killings. No-one had wanted to be caught more, but Sherlock's insistence on a media clamp-down (via the Diogenes Club of course) gave him as little notoriety as was possible.

"He doesn't deserve a shiver of fear when his name is mentioned," he told the clamouring press. "He doesn't deserve a name, but only to be forgotten."

He recalled how Molly Hooper had looked out from beneath tired eyes when it was all over. "Thank you Sherlock, everyone says thank you, and so do I." He didn't enquire too closely about 'everyone', but her open-hearted gratitude made his eyes prickle and his throat close up and he suspected he was coming down with something.

Caught in the memory, Sherlock noticed John's mouth was still moving and Mary was gazing across at him in that quizzical way he both detested and loved at the same time and a thought struck him.

"Who's _at work_?"

John's brow creased quizzically, since he clearly had been speaking of something entirely different.

"Well, Molly, of course. She's at Bart's until six, I think."

"Yep." Mary was getting up, the need for more Sauvignon Blanc overriding the comfort of the sofa. "Could be a long night tonight though, if she said yes." She padded to the kitchen, the very picture of innocence.

"To what?"

"Greg. He was thinking of asking her out … boys, do you ever keep track of what your friends get up to? C'mon!"

 **~x~**

 **One year later.**

It was so early even the night staff were still packing up to go home. She had walked, holding a silent bubble of joy inside of her through the luxurious silence of near deserted London streets as the pinkness of dawn filtered through night's shadows, bringing a golden morning with it.

Frederick had clocked her, surprise briefly clouding his greeting.

"It's OK," she'd smiled. "I'll not be staying long."

No-one else bothered her as she clicked down the corridor and turned into the mortuary. Several covered trolleys were lined up (almost haphazardly - she'd need to have a word) and she stood for a moment in the fizzling fluorescence, the sonorous ticking of the clock and staccato dripping of the tap punctuating the utter quiet.

It wouldn't last, it never did.

" _Well, you said you'd come, but I didn't bloody well believe you!"_

" _Today of all days and she's down here, with us."_

" _You must be mental, Molly. You must have better things you should be doing today of all days."_

I _am_ mental, she thought, smiling into the half-light, or why would I be here, listening to you all.

"I just wanted to say a goodbye, especially to you, Cecil."

" _Aw, thank you Molly."_

"I knew you'd be off today, and I - well, I won't be in for at least a month."

" _A month!"_

Geraldine was swift to judge, but her heart was in the right place (well, as near as it could be after the autopsy anyway).

" _In my day, you were lucky to get a weekend in Skegness!"_

" _I went to Mallorca for a week,"_ interjected Beryl, shyly. _"It was a lovely time of my life and we should be wishing Molly well."_

" _Well, of course we do!"_ Cecil's kindness was as much in evidence in death as it had been in life; it was amazing what we took with us, thought Molly.

" _I'd take a month too Molly,"_ whispered Beryl, quite the chatterbox now. _"He's pretty easy on the eye."_ As well past blushing as she was, Beryl was no slouch in the observation stakes it would seem.

" _Good luck Molly, from us all,"_ came the firm, organisational tones of Sharon, manager of a central London distribution office until a broken heel on a flight of concrete stairs had put pay to all that. _"I still appreciate the efforts you both made to prove I wasn't pushed. I know Sherlock went to a lot of trouble, thank you. We'd all like to wish you well today."_

"Thank you Sharon, I will tell him you said that."

The sudden screech of the swing door stilled all voices and Molly found her heart pitter-pattering ridiculously in a room devoid of such an action, because she knew those strong footsteps and that purposeful stride; she'd know it anywhere, at anytime, in any place. He strode in (as he always did), looking neither left nor right, but with eyes on the prize. Not a corpse, not a police report, not a microscope awaiting inspection, for this time, _she_ was the prize.

" _\- if he doesn't make your heart beat a little bit faster when you hear his key in the door, walk away."_

Alice, my darling, you really don't need to worry.

"Why are you here?"

"Why are _you_?"

They smile at each other across a sea of zipped bags and brushed steel and Molly Hooper could not be any happier.

"You shouldn't really see me before the church."

"I think we're way past the superstition stage, Dr. Hooper." He stepped forward, as did she.

 _The heart wants..._

"We are so way past any convention I can think of," she whispers, feeling his warmth, the smell of ozone and the faint tang of lemon verbena.

 _What it wants…_

Sherlock's hand reaches up, tangling in her hair, cradling her skull, bringing her towards him in a single stroke of possession. Her eyes glitter, dark and bright in equal measure, seeing him and knowing him.

"Is this appropriate?" he whispers, millimetres from her mouth, the vibration of his voice sending tremors through their proximity. "Is this a place I should not kiss you?"

"There is not a place on earth you should not kiss me," replies she, knowing she has the approval of her silent witnesses until (and beyond) the death do us part.

 **The End**


End file.
